


Close at Hand

by SailorChibi



Series: Slave AU [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Awkwardness, Big Brother Mycroft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Child Abuse, Implied Sexual Abuse, Insecurity, Slave Trade, Slave!Sherlock, implied non con, peacemaker greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2346263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has to deal with the morning after of his impulsive decision to purchase Sherlock from the Den, but that's a lot easier done when the flat hasn't been "mysteriously" bugged by the British government.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close at Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stevi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stevi/gifts).



> I'm like blown away by the response to this series. No, seriously. You guys are insane? I can't believe I keep getting commissioned to continue this.

There's no furniture in the upstairs bedroom. But then, it's not like John regularly has visitors, so there was never any need for him to shell out the additional money to furnish it. That doesn't change the fact that Sherlock needs a place to sleep. He ponders over the matter as he gently tucks Sherlock's arm into a sling to keep it immobile. Not much else can be done with what he strongly suspects is a broken collarbone, but tomorrow he might be able to sneak Sherlock into the clinic after hours to give him a more thorough check-up.

He takes in the unreadable look in Sherlock's eyes and the tense set to his shoulders, and mentally revises that. Any check-ups will likely take place in a matter of months, not days or even weeks. As far as Sherlock knows, John is just his next master. He would go to the clinic and submit to a check-up if he were ordered to do so, but only because he would be afraid of the punishment that would follow disobeying and just the _idea_ of it all makes John sick. 

"How are you feeling?" he asks finally, needing to break the heavy silence. Mrs Hudson's bustling around downstairs and the faint sound of clinking crockery drifts up the steps, but it's not enough. He doesn't know what to do or what to say. Bandaging Sherlock's physical wounds has kept him busy for a little while, but now that the majority of Sherlock's painfully slender body is covered in pristine white bandages he's at a loss. 

"Fine."

It's so short and to the point that John knows it's a lie, but he can't really blame Sherlock. Chances are it was drummed into him fairly young that slaves are never in too much pain or too ill to do as their masters wish, and voicing such complaints would only result in more pain. John exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose, tamping down the rage that swells inside of him. "You can be honest with me, Sherlock. Are you in pain?"

Sherlock hesitates and it's easy to see the cogs whirring behind those pale eyes, assessing the situation and trying to decide what the best route is: a lie that could result in punishment, or honesty which could result in punishment. He finally lowers his head slightly. "No, Master."

Jesus. John feels the impact of that word like a slap in the face. Nausea grips him, and it's just as well that Mrs Hudson chooses that moment to bustle in with a tray of tea and biscuits because he doesn't feel capable of speaking. He nods at her blindly and stumbles away, leaving her to fuss over Sherlock while he visits the loo. As soon as the door is shut, he leans over the toilet and throws up everything he's eaten within the past few hours.

Growing up, the slave trade was never something John gave much thought to. His family was comfortably middle class and so they did not own slaves. But when he was fourteen, a family in his town ran into financial trouble and borrowed money from the wrong people. He can still remember the day that the traders came for them, shoving each screaming person into a kennel and carting them away to be dealt with at the Den. It made him sick at the time and it makes him sick now.

Is that how Sherlock was taken? 

"God, what am I doing?" he whispers, running a hand through his sweaty hair. On the one hand, Sherlock is better off here. John has never wanted or needed a slave; he'd been furious with the army doctors at the hospital who suggested that he purchase one to help him get around, as though a slave was no better than his much despised cane. Hearing that the army would be willing to help, if not outright, pay for the purchase had only made him more eager to leave.

He'll never hurt Sherlock. He'll never beat him, starve him, or inflict any of the other myriad of abuse Sherlock has likely suffered. But Sherlock doesn't know that. Given time - and enough freedom to learn that there are still decent people in the world - he'll learn. But John has no idea if he has the money to support them in the meantime. It's been a struggle with just one person, and there are days when John eats very little. From the looks of it, Sherlock needs at least three square meals a day. 

There's just too much pressing down on his head at the moment, but he refuses to buckle under the pressure. They'll make it through somehow. He washes his face and hands before he goes back out to find Sherlock halfway through a biscuit. Their eyes meet and Sherlock somehow manages to look guilty, frightened, and challenging all in the span of about two seconds.

It's the final straw and John just can't take it anymore. He groans and collapses on the end of the sofa, pressing a hand over his face. "Don't say a word. I don't care that you're eating. Mrs Hudson's biscuits are a gift from God and she'll cry if we leave even crumbs on the plate, and I might be starving but there's no feasible way I can eat two dozen biscuits alone. So just eat as much as you want and pass me one of the damn things."

After about a minute, he knows because he counts every damn second, there's a gentle nudge against his hand. John grabs the biscuit without looking and shoves half of it in his mouth, letting out a garbled groan of relief when he swallows and the food hits his belly. Already he's feeling a little better, and it may be just his imagination but he thinks that Sherlock is too. At any rate, the man actually has some colour back in his face and no longer looks like he's going to pass out.

Between the two of them, they manage to consume the entire contents of the plate and the pot of tea in less than forty-five minutes. John's stomach aches afterwards, but he's too full and lazy to care. He does get up and fetch Sherlock a couple of his own painkillers, which are much stronger than usual over the counter ones. It troubles him that Sherlock takes them without saying a word of protest, because those pills could be anything, and he knows that tomorrow they're going to be having a very long chat.

In the meantime, he can't summon the brain cells necessary to do much more than open the door to his bedroom and wave Sherlock in. He points to the bed and says, "You can sleep there tonight. Tomorrow I'll help you to shower. I'm sorry. You probably feel disgusting, but I'm just too tired to do anything tonight. I'd probably drown us both. The loo’s down the hall if you want to give it a shot, but if you can hold off I recommend that you do ‘cause it’s going to hurt.”

Sherlock says nothing, body held stiff in a way that John can’t really process right now. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t have the focus to care. He ends up just nodding and backing out of the room, shutting the door behind him. If Sherlock wants to sleep then he can, and if he doesn’t and wants to stay up all night that’s fine too. He staggers back into the sitting room and does a poor job of tidying up before crashing onto the sofa, passing out before his face even makes impact with the musty-smelling fabric.

The excitement of the previous day affords him a night of sleep free from nightmares, though not from pain: he wakes up around half past six with the sun in his eyes and his thigh and shoulder absolutely throbbing. But if that’s what he gets after giving up his bed to someone who might not have slept in one for years, well, he can’t really complain. 

What he _can_ complain about is the fact that Sherlock is sitting in the chair, back straight as a board and still naked except for the bandages and the collar, staring at him in silence.

“Jesus,” John says, jumping and clapping a hand over his chest. “What the hell are you doing?”

Refusing to make eye contact, that low voice practically whispers, “You are attracted to men as well as women, though you have not been with anyone for some time. Last night you didn’t touch me. You didn’t come to bed, even though I waited. Does my body not please you?” It sounds like he’s forcing the words out, maybe a lesson too well-learned from a master who expected his slaves to be able to read his mind.

It’s too early in the morning for this, but John knows he can’t put it off. Not if he expects Sherlock to have anything even resembling peace of mind. He sits up, grimacing because he’ll be paying for sleeping on the sofa for a while, and keeps his eyes firmly on Sherlock’s face as he says, “It’s not that, Sherlock. I didn’t buy you for that purpose. I don’t like the practice of slavery. I never have. You know that already. If I want to have sex, I can go out and find someone who can willingly consent to it. You will _never_ have to worry about that with me.”

He doesn’t get a response, not that John’s really expecting one. The disbelief radiating off Sherlock is palpable, because he hasn’t made it to this age by believing every little thing that a prospective master tells him. Particularly when what he’s being told is that he won’t be sexually abused. John’s treated enough slaves to know how most masters act between the sheets, especially when it comes to someone who has been specially trained.

“Look, I think we’ve already covered that I’m not usually an impulsive person. But what I do know is that I don’t want or need a slave. You don’t have to call me Master. My name is John. And you can look at me and anyone else who walks into the room. If you feel okay with it, you can even make eye contact.”

Sherlock’s shoulders hunch a bit, like he’s expecting a blow, and John adds firmly, “I will never hit you or beat you or discipline you. Like I said, I don’t want a slave.”

“Then what do you want?”

“How about a friend?” John says quietly, maybe a little bitterly, because it’s truly astonishing just how lonely it can be after returning home from a war. He hadn’t really considered what it would mean before, but life has marched on without him. All of his university friends have moved on, and even if they hadn’t he finds it difficult to connect with the average person. Even the people he works with – they’re so _normal_. 

Sherlock might not have been overseas with a gun in his hand, but he’s still been fighting all his life.

He knows it will take a lot of time: in the clear light of day it’s even more of a miracle Sherlock is in possession of as much spirit as he is. Enough to catch John’s attention in the middle of the crowded Den, at any rate. But that’s a far cry from being able to overcome years of learned habits, especially when those habits – eyes down, submissive posture, feeling out your master’s desires – have kept him alive. According to his file, Sherlock was a child when he was first sold into slavery. That means he probably has no idea what it’s even like to live as a free man.

This may be more complicated than John originally anticipated.

“Breakfast,” he says decisively, resolutely ignoring Sherlock’s penetrating look. “And then a shower, if you think you can manage it.”

Standing up is harder than it should be. His left leg nearly buckles underneath him. He catches himself on the wall, gritting his teeth against the sharp, stabbing pain that runs up his side. It takes a moment for him to work through it, and he still limps heavily when he walks into the kitchen. At least there he can lean against the counter as he pulls out bread and stuffs it into the toaster, lacking the energy to cook anything more substantial. He puts a kettle on and plates on the table, with strawberry jam, butter and the last of the milk.

When the toast pops up, he piles the pieces onto a plate and puts a couple more in. By the time those are done the kettle’s gone off, and he’s relieved for the opportunity to sit down until he realizes that Sherlock hasn’t joined him. Briefly, John closes his eyes. Of course he hasn’t. Slaves don’t presume. Walking into a master’s home and sitting at the table like an equal – slaves have been killed for less. Brash as Sherlock might be, he also seems to possess at least some form of a self-preservation instinct.

“Sherlock,” he calls out.

Like he was waiting for just such a summons, Sherlock appears instantly. He’s still mostly naked, flaccid penis laying along the curve of one pale thigh, one arm strapped to his chest. Standing there framed by the doorway, body decorated equally with bruises and bandages, he looks so thin and fragile that it makes John ache. 

“Come sit down at the table with me. We’re going to eat breakfast together.”

If he was expecting Sherlock to protest or otherwise retreat, that's not what happens. Sherlock enters the kitchen and slides silently into the chair John indicates. John tries to ignore the way utterly awkward way in which he surveys the table, like the food is a marvel to him, and takes two pieces of toast. He puts them both on Sherlock's plate. 

"Do you like butter or jam?"

Sherlock eyes him from under lowered lashes, and again John sees that struggle: the attempt to calculate whether or not it's worthwhile responding when he's got no idea of what the correct answer is supposed to be. He waits patiently, not wanting to rush Sherlock, wondering if they'll ever reach a point when Sherlock realizes that he can voice his opinions. That he's _allowed_ to have opinions.

Finally, "I don't know. Sir."

That last part is added on, but John decides not to argue with it. Sir is a far cry better than Master, at least. "How about one of each, then? You can try both and decide which one you like."

He pretends like the silence is agreement and not just bewilderment and carefully spreads butter over both pieces of toast. Then he adds strawberry jam to just one. He also pours Sherlock a cup of hot tea and adds both sugar and milk without asking, because Sherlock can use the extra calories. The way he is now, any major fever would probably be enough to kill him.

Only once Sherlock is settled does he turn his attention to his own meal, slathering jam on his toast and taking a huge bite with relish. He knows that Sherlock is watching him, and in turn watches out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock slowly picks up the piece of toast with just butter. His hand trembles a little as he brings it to his mouth and tears off a tiny piece, chewing very slowly. The whole time he's tensed like he's expecting John to jump up and slap the toast out of his hand, but at least he's eating it.

It's not much, but it's a start. John feels just a tiny bit lighter as he consumes the remainder of his breakfast.

When it's over and the last of the tea has been drunk, he clears the plates away and leaves them in the sink to be looked after later. "Do you want to shower?"

Sherlock's mouth twists, though he does respond more quickly this time. "Yes. Please."

"That's fine. Do you..." John turns, eyeing him closely. He looks marginally improved. The colour in his face is not from fever anymore, or at least not all of it. "Do you think you can stand up the whole time? Or do you want me to help you?"

The flinch is nearly imperceptible, as is the way that Sherlock's breathing speeds up, but it tells John everything he needs to know about whether or not Sherlock needs help. Even if he thinks he can't do it alone, John can't be in there with him.

"Right," he says hastily. "I'll just... I'll switch it on for you, okay? Just try not to get your bandages wet if you can manage it. And here. Take these." He pops the top off the bottle of his painkillers and sets a couple on the table, regretting that he didn't think to offer them before now. Sherlock has to be in pain and yet he would never ask for relief, of course he wouldn't.

God, this is so hard. 

He gets Sherlock a glass of water and goes to turn on the shower, setting it a temperature that's a little cooler than he'd like - but he doesn't want to send Sherlock into shock. He leaves fresh towels on the toilet and steps aside when Sherlock hovers in the doorway. The room is small enough that it's difficult for John to step out without any part of their bodies touching, but he sucks it in and manages.

"Feel free to lock the door. If you need me, just shout."

The door swings shut immediately behind him, and John's not surprised to hear the lock clicking into place. It's a bit of a relief, actually. He has no idea what the hell he's doing and, even if it makes him feel guilty, he needs a break from Sherlock. 

Leaving the flat door open in case Sherlock falls or calls out to him, he stumbles down the steps and knocks on Mrs Hudson's door. Barely ten seconds pass by before her door flies open and she's standing there with her hands on her hips. She eyes him critically before stepping back, letting him come just inside the warmth of her flat before she says,

"John Watson, what _are_ you doing?"

"God help me, I have no idea," John says honestly, wanting nothing more than to put his head down on her shoulder and just stay there until the world makes more sense. "Mrs Hudson, I... Fuck, I couldn't just leave him there. But he's... he's a slave, and he keeps looking at me like he thinks I'm going to - to beat him or something like that. He asked me why I didn't go to bed with him last night!"

She sighs at that and shakes her head. "He's been a slave. They're all like that, the poor things."

"I hope you don't mind. Like I said, when I saw him I couldn't -"

"Mind? Of course not, dear. I'd never begrudge you helping someone. Ask a man to go against his nature like that? Even if the poor man hadn't needed you like no one else, I'd never turn you out for that." She settles her hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently. It lends him some strength that John desperately needs.

"I wasn't planning it," he confesses. "I don't know if I can afford to feed us both. As it is, I'm probably going to have to take a few weeks off work while he gets settled. I can't imagine leaving him home alone right now. He'd probably think... God knows what he would think."

Mrs Hudson's mouth firms into a thin line. "You can just skip your rent for the month."

"What? Mrs Hudson -"

"No bickering, John. I mean it," she says firmly. "One month is hardly going to be a problem for me and I won't take no for an answer. I wouldn't feel any differently if you ran into someone on the streets who needed your professional help. Frankly, I think you're a saint for caring as much as you do."

John's blushing and he knows it. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"You're welcome. If I can help in any other way, just let me know."

"Well, actually, now that you mention it..."

Fifteen minutes later, John shuffles back up the steps with his arms piled high of old shirts and jeans. He knows his own clothing won't fit Sherlock. There's too much discrepancy in terms of their height and weight. But Mrs Hudson had a lot of her husband's old clothing lying around, and although none of it is exactly fashionable it's far better than walking around naked. And of course, perched on the very top is another container of freshly baked chocolate chip biscuits. She's as determined to help Sherlock put weight on as John.

He puts the biscuits in the kitchen and sorts through the clothing to find the nicest pair of jeans and a t-shirt that doesn't look too badly off. He leaves those, with a pair of his own boxers, in front of the door for Sherlock to find when he's done with his shower. Then he takes a deep breath, goes back into the kitchen, picks up the phone and calls Sarah.

The conversation goes about as well as he expects. Sarah's a perfectly nice woman even if her parents did have slaves while she was growing up. She sounds a bit confused as to why John impulsively purchased a slave after the multiple times he's made his opinion of the Den clear, but she's very understanding when he explains that he'll need to take a bit of time off. At least she reassures him - repeatedly, and with more of a suggestive hint than he's really comfortable with - that his position will be there waiting when he's able to return.

John hangs up with the sound of her throaty voice advising him to come back soon and tries not to cringe. He likes Sarah, and when he first started at the locum he'd even thought about asking her out. But that was before he realized just how unprepared he was for everyday London life, before he realized that being back home didn't mean he was going to magically stop lashing out at nightmares while he's asleep. He needs this job too much to date her. He can't afford to jeopardize it and that goes double now that Sherlock is a factor.

He sits there for a long time, one hand cradling his head. The very last thing he needs is to add more stress when he's already having a hard time readjusting to London. How the hell is he supposed to help _someone else_ get adjusted? Not to mention, someone else who won't understand if John accidentally lashes out or goes into a flashback. The thought of hurting Sherlock, and that could happen, is sickening.

This isn't going to work. But he can't think of any reasonable alternatives. There is absolutely no way that he is sending Sherlock back to the Den, and the procedure to free a slave is both long and extremely expensive. Selling Sherlock is not even an option - how can he be sure that Sherlock will end up with someone who will treat him right? - and neither is helping him to escape. If he's caught, he'd be executed on sight.

A thin shudder runs down his spine. That's not what Sherlock deserves. Somehow the two of them are going to have to muddle through as best they can. Maybe he can look into some of a grant, or maybe once Sherlock gets more comfortable with London and not being treated like a slave, he'll be interested in working. There must be something a slave can do to bring income into a household, surely? And it would probably be good for Sherlock to get a taste of what it's like to receive money for what you're doing instead of cruelty and abuse.

The distant sound of the water in the shower being turned off breaks him out of his musing. He listens hard, but Sherlock is very quiet at whatever he's doing. He hears the door open and then close again, presumably Sherlock finding the clothing and (hopefully) putting it on. Then finally, the door opens a second time and Sherlock comes wandering out into the sitting room. 

He's dressed now, and the difference from the naked slave of before is striking. He doesn't look nearly as vulnerable, like the clothing has afforded him an extra layer behind which to hide, and if he finds the feel of the fabric strange against his skin he does not show it. It helps that for the first time he's walking with his back straight and his head lifted, even though his eyes are still on the floor. The jeans fit a bit loosely around his too-slender waist, and the t-shirt is practically falling off a bony shoulder, but it's better than he was before. 

Of course, now that he's clean John can also see the bruises on his neck above the collar, on his arms and even his feet with far better clarity. His gut burns with anger, but he tries to force a smile. He doesn't want Sherlock to think that he's done anything wrong. "Clothes fit okay?" he asks hoarsely.

"I guess," Sherlock says, looking down at himself doubtfully.

"We'll have to get you some new ones. You can't wear cast-offs forever, but it was all we had on hand." John sighs a bit, not wanting to think about how expensive that could get, and stands up. "Sit down if you like. Mrs Hudson sent biscuits up. I'll make some tea."

The kettle is on and he's set two cups out before he turns around and yelps, realizing that Sherlock has appeared behind him without his notice. He's holding something in his hand: a little black, square object small enough to fit in the palm of John's hand. He doesn't recognize it and looks at it blankly, wondering if it's something that Sherlock brought along with him from the Den.

But then, where would he have hidden it?

"Did you know your house was bugged?" Sherlock says, and it takes a moment for John to string these words together and understand what they mean.

"The flat is - what?"

"Bugged. Someone is monitoring your conversations."

John stares at the little black box in bewilderment, because who would bother bugging his flat? It's not like anything interesting ever happens to him. "Who?"

"That would be me, Doctor Watson."

"Jesus!" John jumps for the second time in less than five minutes as Sherlock turns quickly. There's a man standing at the front door that John does not recognize.

He's a tall man, well built, with thinning hair. The suit he is wearing could easily pay all of John's bills for at least two months, possibly three, and he's holding an umbrella in his hand. When he steps forward, entering the flat like he's been issued an invitation, two more people come in behind him: an equally well-dressed woman and another man, this time with greying hair and an expression that wavers between curiosity and concern.

"Who the hell are you?" John demands, instinctively stepping forward in front of Sherlock.

"You could call me an interested party."

"Oh, Mycroft, cut the crap," the second guy cuts in, rolling his eyes. "Now is not the time to go on with that mysterious bullshit you love. This is Mycroft Holmes," he says to John, pulling a badge out of his pocket. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade with Scotland Yard, and this is Anthea, Mycroft's assistant. And _that_ is Sherlock Holmes."

John turns his head slightly to look at Sherlock. There had been no last name written in the file for Sherlock, but that was not surprising. Slaves were not considered human enough to warrant having a last name; in the eyes of the law they were like animals, and if necessary took on the name of their owner. But of course, at one point Sherlock would have had a last name that related strictly to his family.

"Sherlock?" he asks.

"I..." Sherlock opens his mouth and then shuts it, seemingly incapable of forcing any other syllables out of his mouth. His fingers tighten around the black box, like maybe he regrets finding it and bringing it to John's attention in the first place.

"It's okay," John says quietly, sensing that he might be getting overwhelmed. He turns a hard look back at Mycroft. "If that is true, why would you bug my flat?"

"Sherlock is my brother and I've been searching for him for a long time," says Mycroft. Not once has he taken his eyes off Sherlock, who seems uncomfortable with the scrutiny. "My original plan was to approach you after we had a better read on the situation, but it appears my brother has beaten me to it. I will pay you any sum for him that you wish. Whatever your price, name it."

"Listen here, I didn't buy Sherlock just to sell him to any old -"

"We have proof," Lestrade interrupts gently, reaching into an envelope that he's been holding. He draws out several photographs and comes close enough to hand them over.

John stares at them, half-twisting automatically so that Sherlock can see them as well. They're all of a child - a little boy, ranging from a baby a few months old to a happy eight- or nine-year-old. The curly, dark hair is a dead giveaway. Sherlock reaches out and touches one of the photographs like it's something valuable, and John hands them over to him without waiting to be asked. He watches Sherlock stare at the pictures, trying to ignore the twisting in his heart. 

No matter how hard it would've been, he would've enjoyed having Sherlock around.

"I need a D.N.A test for confirmation," he says firmly. "That could be anyone. _If_ it turns out that you really are Sherlock's brother and he wants to go with you, he can."

Mycroft's eyes narrow slightly, but he inclines his head. "I will have the test taken as soon as possible and the results rushed," he says.

There's an awkward moment during which everyone kind of just stands there, and then John sighs. Evidently he's not going to be rid of these uninvited guests anytime soon, particularly since he can't even threaten to call the police, and he desperately needs a cuppa. "Does anyone else want a cup of tea?"

In due time, the five of them are settled around the kitchen table with cups of tea and the container of biscuits within easy reach. Sherlock is still clutching the photographs and the bugging device, but now he's staring at Mycroft with a curious furrow between his eyebrows. 

"Do you remember me?" Mycroft asks.

"No."

It's not meant to be harsh but it still comes across that way, and Mycroft winces a little before he manages to cover it up. "You were young, so I guess I shouldn't be disappointed." His tone conveys that he is.

"What happened?" John asks, because he thinks - knows - that Sherlock won't. Not yet. 

"I was away at university and my parents decided that they were finished raising children," Mycroft says, old fury stealing across his face. "By the time I realized what was happening and returned home, I was too late. Sherlock was gone and I had no way of tracing him. They burned the sale papers, their contact information... anything that would've given me something to work with. I searched, of course, but he was so young... the sale was illegal and they made certain to cover their tracks."

Lestrade reaches out and puts his hand lightly on top of Mycroft's, squeezing just once. Mycroft noticeably steels himself, continuing, "I never stopped looking. I took a government job to further my options. The more connections I made, the better my chances of finding him. You. This is the first time you've been in London for decades, isn't it?"

Sherlock nods, just once, and then shocks John by whispering, "I spent most of my life in Europe. France, Italy, Rome. Sometimes my owners liked to travel, so I've even been to America. But it wasn't until my last owner purchased me in Paris that I came to London. He brought me back with him, but then he had to sell me when his wife fell ill and he couldn't afford to pay her medical bills. He needed the money. I wasn't in the Den very long."

Long enough, John thinks, eyeing the sling that's still keeping Sherlock's arm strapped to his body. Having seen the rage of the guards, he can't imagine Sherlock would've survived much longer. "How did you know the flat was bugged?"

"One of my owners worked for the DGSE," Sherlock says, naming France's Intelligence Agency. "He trained me in specific areas so that I would be of more use to him."

That certainly wasn't written into Sherlock's file. It makes John wonder what else the slave has seen and done and lived through. He has to squish a little surge of sadness at the realization that he's never going to find out. Because he thinks Mycroft may be telling the truth. There's something about the desperate way he looks at Sherlock - no one would be capable of faking that much emotion. Which means Sherlock is going to be leaving, and if Mycroft is as well connected as he claims, it's probably for the best.

"Those kinds of talents are in high demand," says Anthea. It's the first time she's spoken - or even lifted her head from her Blackberry, really. Her expression is cool as she takes Sherlock in. "Once you're free, you would have plenty of job offers. Particularly if you can speak as many languages as what you've implied."

Sherlock stares at her and goes so pale that John is forced to consider the possibility he might faint. Lestrade says quickly, "Of course, that wouldn't be right away. Nothing would happen until you're ready for it, Sherlock."

"It will probably be a while," John says cautiously, because he doesn't really feel like it's his place. But at the same time, he doesn't want anyone pushing Sherlock into something before he's ready. John's been there. He knows too damn well what that's like. And the results can be traumatic.

Right now Sherlock is taking everything well. Almost too well. That could easily change with the right trigger.

"Of course," Lestrade says again, nodding at John. "And -"

"No."

It's spoken so softly that at first John isn't even sure who said it.

Sherlock is hunched in his chair again, trying to make himself as tiny as possible. But he's so lanky that it's impossible. It's obvious he expects to be beaten for saying that word, and so really just ends up presenting a scene that's heartbreaking. John is surprised by the strength of the desire to wrap Sherlock up in his arms and soothe him, the way you would a frightened puppy, and stops himself only because he knows that anyone moving towards him right now is only going to terrify Sherlock even more. 

From the devestated look on Mycroft's face, he's not the only one.

"No what, Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice is very, very gentle, but he seems to know better than to reach out to Sherlock right now. "What don't you want? It's okay, sweetheart, you can tell us."

"I want... I want to stay with... with John."

John's mouth drops open, and it's only Lestrade stomping on his foot that keeps him from demanding to know why.

It doesn't stop Mycroft. "Why?"

His eyes darting around like he's a cornered animal, Sherlock mumbles, "He's... he's my... f-friend." 

It's entirely possible that John's heart stops.

"I'm sure that's fine," Lestrade says, still in that sweet and soft tone of voice. "Right John? Mycroft?"

"Yes," Mycroft says, though it looks as though it pains him to do so. 

"Yeah," John says, dazed and confused.

"We can come visit you instead," Lestrade adds with a warm smile. 

Sherlock nods slowly, though doubtfully, like he thinks that he'll never see Mycroft, Lestrade or Anthea again.

"Good. John, Mycroft, can I talk to you?"

The three of them convene in the sitting room, leaving Sherlock with Anthea. The first thing Lestrade says is, "This isn't a bad thing."

"What?" Mycroft snaps. "That is not -"

"Mycroft Holmes, keep your voice down." Lestrade glares at him. "You know your schedule as well as I do. You can't leave your post for months on end, and Sherlock can't handle that kind of change right now. He needs stability, someone constant who can be there with him every day and give him a solid routine. I think Doctor Watson is more suited to that than you are right now, no matter how many professionals you hire. Sherlock needs someone who cares about _him_."

"I care about him."

"I know that. And someday Sherlock will, too. But this is about what he needs, not what you want. Besides, I'm sure Doctor Watson would welcome whatever help we could send his way."

John blinks at the sudden scrutiny of two intense pairs of eyes. All he can think of to say is, "You can call me John, you know."

Lestrade actually grins. "I'm Greg, then. Look, John, you don't mind Sherlock staying, right?"

"God, no."

"Then I really think this is the best option that we have to work with right now. Mycroft, believe me, I know how much you want to take Sherlock home. But I've seen slaves that were purchased, slaves with the kind of history Sherlock has. This is better."

Mycroft scowls, but even he can't argue the logic in Greg's words. He turns to John. "A word of warning, _Doctor Watson_. I will have you and my brother under surveillance. If I hear even the slightest hint that you are abusing or taking advantage of him in some way, disappearing will be the least of your problems."

"Noted, but you should know that I expect to see that D.N.A. test before you come back," John says calmly, not perturbed by the threat in the slightest. 

He gets a glare in return and then Mycroft shoulders by into the kitchen. Greg sighs and looks at John apologetically. "I'm sorry. It's just... he's been looking for a long time and -"

"I get it, it's fine," John says, because he does. If this were Harry, he wouldn't want to leave her with a stranger either. For all Mycroft knows, he could've purchased Sherlock with the intent to use him as a slave just the way all of his other owners have. 

Greg gives him a thoughtful look for a few seconds before he smirks. "You say that now, but wait until you find out just how aggravating a Holmes can be."

Shooting a quick look back into the kitchen, where Anthea has somehow coaxed Sherlock into looking at her phone while Mycroft pretends he's not watching them, John just smiles. "I look forward to it."

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/) for, uh, fangirlness and porn.


End file.
